‘I think I had. They should prescribe you on the National Health.’
He smiled, running his hand over my fishnetted curves again.
‘You too,’ he said. ‘Take three times daily after meals.’
‘I think I could handle that,’ I said.
He sat up and put his hand around my ankle.
‘It needs bandaging,’ he said. ‘Have you got anything?’
‘Not bandages per se,’ I said. ‘A dressing-gown cord is as close as it gets.’
‘That’d do.’
The robe was hanging on the door. He took the satin belt from its loops and wrapped it slowly and carefully around the swollen area, down to my heel.
I shut my eyes and imagined he was tying me up for real, about to hobble me or bind me to the bedpost. He would keep me spreadeagled here, ready for sex whenever he felt the urge.
‘Is that all right?’ he asked. ‘Too tight?’
‘A little tighter would be fine,’ I said.
I opened my eyes to watch him pull it taut and let out a shuddering breath, excited again, despite my post-coital limpness.
‘Did that hurt?’ he asked, all concern.
‘No,’ I said unevenly. ‘’Sfine.’
One side of his mouth twitched up, but his brow was furrowed, as if trying to solve me like a riddle.
‘Good,’ he said.
I knew I was blushing. I felt I’d given something away.
‘Right, well, I’m going to get you a bag of frozen peas or something, to put against it, and then you’re going to turn on your computer and tell me all about this blogger of yours.’
Oh, bugger! He was supposed to have forgotten about that. The mind-blowing sex had failed to blow enough of his mind.
He helped me up from the bed, supported me over to my desk and sat me in the chair. My knickers felt cold and slimy and the fuzzy upholstery of the cushion prickled my sensitive skin. My hold-ups were clinging damply to my legs and I didn’t dare turn my head far enough to catch my reflection in the dressing-table mirror.
He dealt with the condom and wrapped himself in my beltless robe, then disappeared in the direction of the kitchen.
What was I going to do? Could I make something up? But what? Couldn’t I just say it was a news blog or a fashion blog or a…
He came back in with a bag of Bird’s Eye’s finest and rubbed them against my ankle.
‘Christ!’ I yelped, kicking away as fast as I could. ‘It’s freezing!’
‘You seem surprised,’ he said, laughing at me.
‘I’m not – it’s just…wouldn’t a bit of coldish water do?’
He rolled his eyes and left the room again, giving me a bit more time to play with.
A fashion blog? But then it would seem weird to be so concerned about its disappearance. And if I spun some yarn about a news blogger disappearing, he’d jump all over it and want to investigate.
Would it be so difficult to tell him the truth?